“Forty, maybe.”
“My money’s on the Russian,” Dino said.
“Mine, too,” Stone replied. “I can’t prove it. Can you?”
“Not yet.”
Golding put down his steak knife and polished off his drink. “I’ve got to go home before my wife divorces me,” he said. “Can I contribute to dinner?”
“You already have,” Dino said “Good luck at the hospital and with your wife.”
Golding shook their hands and departed.
“Well, we have a clearer picture of events now,” Dino said.
“I’m glad you do,” Stone replied. “I don’t have a fucking clue.”
“We need a motive,” Dino said.
“We certainly do. Again, I’m clueless.”
“Why would someone like Chekhov poison somebody at a big dinner party?”
“Cover,” Stone said. “Lots of other suspects.”
“In Paris, you said this Peter Grant guy kowtows to Chekhov, right?”
“Right.”
“Does he kowtow enough to commit murder on Chekhov’s instructions?”
“One more thing I don’t know,” Stone said.
“Check with Lance, will you?”
“First thing tomorrow,” Stone said.
* * *
—
Stone was having breakfast the following morning when his iPhone rang. “I’ll scramble,” he said. “Done.”
“What’s this I hear about a poisoning?” Lance asked.
“Somebody was poisoned,” Stone said.
“In your bathroom?”
“Twenty-four to forty-eight hours before my bathroom,” Stone replied. “That’s what her doctor reckons, anyway.”
“Was Chekhov present?”
“In my bathroom?”
“At the dinner where she ingested the poison.”
“Yes.”
“Then he’s your principal suspect.”
“Funny, that’s what Dino and I thought.”
“Why hasn’t Dino arrested him?”
“Dino needs evidence for an arrest. He’s funny that way. Anyway, Chekhov’s likely got a diplomatic passport. If he does, Dino can’t even question him without the Russian ambassador’s permission.”
“Which will not be forthcoming, of course.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Chekhov has already left the country,” Stone said.
“For where?”
“Anywhere he likes, I should think.”
“Do you know how he was transported to New York?”
“Private airplane. He had one in Paris.”
“I’ll have a look taken at private flights. How’s the girl doing?”
“Last night, her eyelids were fluttering. I’ve had no reports today.”
“She’s lucky to be alive.”
“She may not be, for all I know.”
“Call somebody and find out the latest,” Lance said.
“As soon as everybody has time to get to work.”
“I’m at work,” Lance replied.
“Great, then you call somebody, Lance. I’m still having breakfast.” Stone hung up.
40
Stone got himself together, then had Fred drive him to Bellevue. He took the elevator to the sixth floor and went to Vanessa’s room. The door stood wide open: the bed was rumpled and a couple of IV bags hung from a rack, their ends pinched. “Oh, shit,” he said, then went looking for the nurses’ station and flagged one down.
“Yes, sir?”
“What’s happened to Vanessa Baker, in 603?”
“She took a hike,” the woman said.
“Is that a euphemism for died?”
“No, she was conscious, but on a gurney, with a private medical team surrounding her, plus her mother.”
“Do you know what hospital they took her to?”
“The mother said she was taking her home.”
“Do you have an address?”
The nurse checked her clipboard. “Which one? Mother or daughter?”
“Both.”
“Oh, looks like they have the same address.” It was an apartment building on Fifth Avenue, in the eighties.
Stone thanked her and slipped a hundred under the clip of the board. “Buy your girls a drink.” He went back to where he had left Fred, got into the car, and gave him the address, then he called Bill Golding.
“Morning, Stone. Thanks for dinner last night.”
“Are you divorced yet?”
“Not yet. I made it just in time.”
“Tell me about Vanessa.”
“Her mother checked her out of the hospital.”
“I know, I was just there. How is Vanessa?”
“Conscious for short periods, utters a few words. Better than yesterday. I’m encouraged.”
“Is taking her home going to help her or kill her?”
“I think she’ll improve further at home, or I would have thrown myself across the bed and strapped her down. Her mother brought a doctor and two nurses. They were thoroughly briefed on her condition and progress before we allowed them to take her.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
“You’re welcome.”
Stone hung up as they pulled up to the awning on Fifth Avenue. He was immediately grilled by, first, a doorman, then a front-desk man. They called upstairs and he was allowed to take the elevator to her floor.
A uniformed maid answered the door. “Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes.”
“This way, please.”
He followed her across a comfortable living room and into a large bedroom next to it. French doors were open to a terrace, and Vanessa lay in a hospital bed where, presumably, her own bed usually was. A nurse, who was sitting beside the bed doing a crossword, stood up.
“Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes.” Stone walked to the bedside and bent over Vanessa, who appeared to be asleep. Her eyes opened, and she managed a small smile.